Last Saturday I had to conduct viva on Odia language for the officers of the Odisha Subordinate Finance Service (OSFS). The officers of OSFC are selected through a competitive exam conducted by Odisha Staff Selection Commission. The competition is tough. They were all good students. Otherwise, they would not have qualified the test and been selected for the jobs. In the written test they have to translate a passage from Odia into English, and retranslate a passage from English into Odia.
In the viva on the language, I asked the names of the authors of some popular Odia books such as Nilasaila, Amadabata, Matiramanisha, Kaa, Sasthi, Narakinnar, Danapani, Paraja, etc or asked to name any three stories of Phakir Mohan Senapati. Amadabata, Matiramanisha, Kaa, Sasthi have been made into successful films. To my utter surprise, most of the candidates could not name the authors. To be precise, only two out of 60-65 candidates I asked could name the author of Nilasaila, (Nilasaila had won Kendra Sahitya Academy award for the author), and only one could tell the name of the author of Amadabata. No one of 70-75 candidates I asked knew the authors of Matiramanisha (Matiramanisha was made into a film by none other than the great film director, Mrinal Sen), Kaa, Sasthi or Narakinnar. Only two out of 70-75 candidates could tell three of the stories of Phakir Mohan Senapati.
Are the young people not supposed to have some knowledge on their rich literary tradition? Should they be so oblivious to their culture and tradition?
I asked one candidate, “Where do you belong to?”
He said, “Khurda”
“Have you heard the name of Sachi Routray?”
I asked this question to him because Sachi Routray, the great poet, Jnanapeeth award winner, regarded as trend setter in Odia poetry was born in Gurujang, a village very near to Khurda.
He replied, “Yes, perhaps, he is in politics.”
I asked, “Was he an MLA or MP or a Sarapanh of your gram panchayat? What…?”
He kept mum.
I said, “Get out.”
I remember a young man I met in 1999.
I was a Sales Tax Officer working in a circle office at Cuttack. A young man, V. George by mane appeared before me for a firm owned by a person of Keral. The firm had a branch at Cuttack and George was the accountant of the Cuttack branch. I examined the books of accounts of the firm, and to record his statement I asked him his name, age, his father’s name, his village, etc. He told his village Alleppey. I remarked, “Alleppey is a familiar place. I don’t remember exactly, but recently it was in news.”
George said, “Alleppey is the place where Thakazhi Sivasankar Pillai lived. He died recently; perhaps, you have come across the news of his death and read his obituary in the newspaper.”
I looked at him. There was a tinge of pride in his voice. He added, “I belong to the place where the great writer lived.”
George was at 23. He told his age when I had asked for the purpose of the statement I was recording. I became curious. A young man identified a place with a writer and took pride in saying he belonged to the place where a writer lived! If you ask a person of Cuttack about the city, he would say the place famous for its filigree work, it was the ancient capital of Odisha, the city boasted of the first college of Odisha, or anything; but no one would say this is the city where Sachi Routray lived or Jayant Mohapatra resides. The young man of Khurda even did not know who Sachi Routray was, though the great poet’s native is hardly two kms away from Khurda.
I asked George, “Have you read his books?”
He looked surprised. I could read from his look what he had in his mind. Perhaps, he thought the question was irrelevant, rather meaningless. Being an inhabitant of Keral he was supposed to have read the book and such silly question should not have been asked. I added, “I have read his Chemmeen, in English translation. I had enjoyed the novel. Of course, that is the only novel of the writer I have read.”
I clarified. He briefly told the story to convey that he had actually read the book and asked me what other books of Malayalam literature I had read. We discussed for some time on Malayalam literature, the books of other writers I had read. My knowledge on Malayalam literature was limited; I had read maximum one or two books of some of the writers, especially those available in English translation.
The advocate, an Odia gentleman who represented the firm and accompanied him, listened to our discussion and admitted that he had not even read five per cent of Odia literature to George’s reading of his language literature.
A few days later George came with two books of M T Vasudevan Nair. In course of discussion he knew the books of Malayalam literature I had read and what I had not. The books were in English translation. I said, “I had not told you to buy books for me?”
He said, “Sir, you are a lover of literature, please accept the books as gifts. You have read only a few stories of MT from magazines; you can better appreciate him and Malayalam literature if you read his novels.”
I saw the books. The cost of the two books was more than Rs 350. I said, “I would receive it, but you have to accept price of the books.”
His salary, I guessed, would be meagre. I know the amount the private firms like the one he represents pay their employees. Spending Rs 350, no doubt, was too much an expense for him for some sort of meaningless and sentimental reasons. But he was reluctant to accept payment. He said, “How can you say it a gift if you pay for the books. If you insist, I have to receive; but it will hurt me.”
I had to receive the valued gifts with much reluctance not to hurt his sentiments.
xxxxxxx
Friday, November 18, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
What’s in a name?
“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell sweet”
-Shakespeare
In simple words, my teacher used to say, what‘s in a name, in any other name the rose smells the same. The great poet and playwright by this means and what we understand is what matters is what something is, not what it is called. There is much discussion on the subject and the two lines are much quoted. But I have not come across a discussion on what happens when two persons bear the same name. It definitely matters to the person bearing the name of another person, known and powerful. A very few persons might have the bitter/sweet experience as I have.
The officers of Orissa Finance Service have to pass Marwari language test. Since the business community in Odisha comprises a large chunk of Marwaris, the officers are required to know the language to study their books of accounts they maintain in their language. An officer of Orissa Administrative Service, then working as ADM in Sundargarh, had come to take the viva test. When I entered into the room, he offered me a seat and then, asked his first question, “Do you know any other person by the name Sahadev Sahoo?”
“Yes, there are three in Odisha… I know.” I replied.
“Three?” He looked surprised.
“Yes, sir. One Prof Sahadev Sahoo, the professor of SCB Medical College, who recently died of car accident. Second, Sahadev Sahoo I A S.” I said
“The third one?” He asked.
“Myself, I mean, the person sitting before you.” I replied
He could not control his laugh. Laughingly he said, “Write your name and the post held by the second Sahadev Sahoo.”
Sahadev Sahoo, IAS was then Secretary to Government, Information and Public Relations Department. I wrote on a piece of paper in Marwari. My interview was over. He had awarded me the pass mark.
When I was a student in college/university I wanted to be a feature writer/columnist, to write on current affairs, comment on socio-political events. But destiny had some other things in store for me. I entered into government service and I learnt I could not write anything critical of the government policy. I could write only articles of academic nature. I gave up my ambition of writing features/articles on current events, and switched over to writing stories.
My stories got attention of the reading public. I received letters of appreciation from the readers, which encouraged me to continue with writing. Sometimes I received letters like this. “Sir, I read your story published in … magazine. I liked it. I have read your articles on daka tickatru jnana( knowledge from the postage stamps). But I did not know, you also write stories which are so beautiful….”
Sahadev Sahoo, IAS is a philatelist. He was former Chief Secretary to Govt of Odisha and also former Vice Chancellor, Odisha University of Agriculture and Technology (OUAT). He writes essays, features on varied things. He has also written a few stories, but he is not known as a story writer. He wrote in the Samaj, one of the most popular and widely circulated Odia daily, a regular column titled daka tickatru jnana( knowledge from the postage stamps) for quite a long time. The above letter writers mistook my stories as his as he was famous and a popular person.
To the above letter-writers I wrote back just to dispel their misgivings, “Thanks for the letter, glad to know you liked the story. But I am not Sahadev Sahoo IAS, the philatelist, though I have written this story.”
I did not get back any letter after I clarified them, which created doubts in my mind whether the story I wrote was really good! Was the letter addressed to me was neither for me nor for the story, but for the former Chief Secretary and Vice Chancellor?
In the year 1999, my first collection of short stories was published. An eminent writer was invited to the book release function held at Puri. The function was organised by my friend, Pradeep Biswal, the poet. The eminent writer told me,“Honestly speaking, I had not read your story till I got invited to the function. I was under the impression that the IAS Sahadev Sahoo was writing the stories. He is an essayist, a feature writer, but not a good story writer. I did not want to waste my time on reading his stories. Recently, after I got invited, I chanced upon your story in nabalipi. Of course, your photograph was also published. I have read only one story of yours. That was good.”
A few years back SAMBAD had published in every month the dates of births of the Odia writers/poets. My date of birth, as recorded in my certificate, is 10th January. In the month of January of that year SAMBAD had mentioned my name against 10th January, but had published the photograph of Sahadev Sahoo IAS. His date of birth is, perhaps, not 10th January.
Gobind Chand, a journalist cum writer has published his research work on contribution of Jhankar to Odia literature. All the stories published in the name of Sahadev Sahoo in Jhankar by the time the book was published, both mine as well as his, have been mentioned against Sahadev Sahoo. Credit of all the stories goes to one person, and definitely it would go to the IAS.
There are many similar incidents occurring since last twenty/twenty-five years.
A few months back, Neelkain, an Odia literary magazine honoured me as a story writer in a function organised at Bhubaneswar. I was given two minutes to speak my reactions. I spoke about the confusion being created bearing the same name with a known and familiar person, an IAS officer. My daughter was in the audience. She told me later that a person sitting beside her was saying to his friend, “I also believe the same. Sahadev Sahoo, IAS writes the stories. Who is this fellow? First time I am hearing there is another person by the name Sahadev Sahoo.”
xxxxx
By any other name would smell sweet”
-Shakespeare
In simple words, my teacher used to say, what‘s in a name, in any other name the rose smells the same. The great poet and playwright by this means and what we understand is what matters is what something is, not what it is called. There is much discussion on the subject and the two lines are much quoted. But I have not come across a discussion on what happens when two persons bear the same name. It definitely matters to the person bearing the name of another person, known and powerful. A very few persons might have the bitter/sweet experience as I have.
The officers of Orissa Finance Service have to pass Marwari language test. Since the business community in Odisha comprises a large chunk of Marwaris, the officers are required to know the language to study their books of accounts they maintain in their language. An officer of Orissa Administrative Service, then working as ADM in Sundargarh, had come to take the viva test. When I entered into the room, he offered me a seat and then, asked his first question, “Do you know any other person by the name Sahadev Sahoo?”
“Yes, there are three in Odisha… I know.” I replied.
“Three?” He looked surprised.
“Yes, sir. One Prof Sahadev Sahoo, the professor of SCB Medical College, who recently died of car accident. Second, Sahadev Sahoo I A S.” I said
“The third one?” He asked.
“Myself, I mean, the person sitting before you.” I replied
He could not control his laugh. Laughingly he said, “Write your name and the post held by the second Sahadev Sahoo.”
Sahadev Sahoo, IAS was then Secretary to Government, Information and Public Relations Department. I wrote on a piece of paper in Marwari. My interview was over. He had awarded me the pass mark.
When I was a student in college/university I wanted to be a feature writer/columnist, to write on current affairs, comment on socio-political events. But destiny had some other things in store for me. I entered into government service and I learnt I could not write anything critical of the government policy. I could write only articles of academic nature. I gave up my ambition of writing features/articles on current events, and switched over to writing stories.
My stories got attention of the reading public. I received letters of appreciation from the readers, which encouraged me to continue with writing. Sometimes I received letters like this. “Sir, I read your story published in … magazine. I liked it. I have read your articles on daka tickatru jnana( knowledge from the postage stamps). But I did not know, you also write stories which are so beautiful….”
Sahadev Sahoo, IAS is a philatelist. He was former Chief Secretary to Govt of Odisha and also former Vice Chancellor, Odisha University of Agriculture and Technology (OUAT). He writes essays, features on varied things. He has also written a few stories, but he is not known as a story writer. He wrote in the Samaj, one of the most popular and widely circulated Odia daily, a regular column titled daka tickatru jnana( knowledge from the postage stamps) for quite a long time. The above letter writers mistook my stories as his as he was famous and a popular person.
To the above letter-writers I wrote back just to dispel their misgivings, “Thanks for the letter, glad to know you liked the story. But I am not Sahadev Sahoo IAS, the philatelist, though I have written this story.”
I did not get back any letter after I clarified them, which created doubts in my mind whether the story I wrote was really good! Was the letter addressed to me was neither for me nor for the story, but for the former Chief Secretary and Vice Chancellor?
In the year 1999, my first collection of short stories was published. An eminent writer was invited to the book release function held at Puri. The function was organised by my friend, Pradeep Biswal, the poet. The eminent writer told me,“Honestly speaking, I had not read your story till I got invited to the function. I was under the impression that the IAS Sahadev Sahoo was writing the stories. He is an essayist, a feature writer, but not a good story writer. I did not want to waste my time on reading his stories. Recently, after I got invited, I chanced upon your story in nabalipi. Of course, your photograph was also published. I have read only one story of yours. That was good.”
A few years back SAMBAD had published in every month the dates of births of the Odia writers/poets. My date of birth, as recorded in my certificate, is 10th January. In the month of January of that year SAMBAD had mentioned my name against 10th January, but had published the photograph of Sahadev Sahoo IAS. His date of birth is, perhaps, not 10th January.
Gobind Chand, a journalist cum writer has published his research work on contribution of Jhankar to Odia literature. All the stories published in the name of Sahadev Sahoo in Jhankar by the time the book was published, both mine as well as his, have been mentioned against Sahadev Sahoo. Credit of all the stories goes to one person, and definitely it would go to the IAS.
There are many similar incidents occurring since last twenty/twenty-five years.
A few months back, Neelkain, an Odia literary magazine honoured me as a story writer in a function organised at Bhubaneswar. I was given two minutes to speak my reactions. I spoke about the confusion being created bearing the same name with a known and familiar person, an IAS officer. My daughter was in the audience. She told me later that a person sitting beside her was saying to his friend, “I also believe the same. Sahadev Sahoo, IAS writes the stories. Who is this fellow? First time I am hearing there is another person by the name Sahadev Sahoo.”
xxxxx
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Living in Two Worlds
Last Sunday, I got a phone call when I was preparing to go to Bhubaneswar, to the site to see my house under construction. It was a woman’s voice. She introduced herself, “I am one of the readers of your stories.”
I was in a different mood, so I could not get at her. I did not react immediately. She understood and explained, “I just finished your story published in SAMBAD’s annual special issue and I wanted to talk to you.”
She was telling about the story seshachithi (the last letter) I had referred to in my blog ‘A Love Story Retold’.
I asked, “Where did you get my phone number?”
I do not usually publish my phone number along with the story in any magazine like other writers do. I cannot always attend to the call if it comes. Normally, I keep my cell phone in silent mode if I am with my boss or in a meeting. If the phone is not in silent mode and I am in a meeting or with the boss discussing something I immediately switch off when it starts ringing. The caller would certainly feel offended and mistake me as haughty and arrogant.
She said, “In fact I had read the story yesterday. I was so moved by the story that I wanted to talk to you. I got your phone number from SAMBAD office. Today I reread the story and just finished it.”
A writer desires his/her writing should be appreciated; he certainly likes to be praised. Her phone call, no doubt, gladdened my heart.
She asked, “Is it from your own life? I mean… an affair of your school…college days?”
I said, “No Ma’am. The main character of the story is an aged person; he is on the verge of retirement or has already retired. But I am not as old as the character in the story. That is a story, a work of fiction, certainly not my story.”
She said, “The story is excellent, especially the way you have ended. It appears as if it’s yours, a real love story. The language is very simple; I have already read it twice.”
Her eloquence in praising made me shy. To change the topic I asked about her. I learnt she was a teacher, working in Charampa, Bhadrak. I thanked her and switched off the cell phone.
I went to Bhubaneswar, argued with the contractor, got irritated for the slow progress of the construction, paid to him his weekly payment, fretted over the increasing cost of construction materials. I returned home hungry, ate a late lunch and slept. A day passed. I forgot the woman caller’s name. I had not also saved her phone number.
Ten years back. My third book, a collection of short stories (Nija batare nije i.e. all are in their own ways) was just published.
I had finished my eating and was about to go to the office when my land phone started ringing. (Then mobile phone was not commonly used and I did not have one). It was also a woman’s voice. She introduced herself in the same way, “I am one of the readers of your stories. I just finished your book.”
“May I know your name?” I asked.
I was pleased to hear a woman’s voice, an admirer of my stories. I wanted to know more about her. But instead of answering my question, she asked, “Do you know the names of all of your readers? Certainly not. So, why should you want to know my name?”
“It’s true; I don’t know all of my readers. I don’t know if I have at all any readers. But all don’t call up me. It is not unusual to be curious to know the person who gives me a ring.”
She laughed, I was amused.
She said, “You need not be curious about me, I shall not tell my name. But I assure, you have a good readership, your stories are liked by many. We, I mean, me and my friends have really enjoyed your book. In fact, we were discussing…”
I said, “Are you a student, staying in a hostel?”
“Don’t be smart… I shall not give any hints…”
“You have already given me hints without being conscious of it.’
“No, you are wrong. Even you assume me a student, staying in a hostel; you don’t know my name, the college or the hostel. Leave it. Please answer my question. Are you the character of your stories? The stories are so lively and beautiful, it seems, the writer is writing his own experience. We thoroughly enjoyed the stories…”
The book, nija batare nije contains fifteen stories. The main character of all the stories is one. His name is Manas. The character is the same in all the stories, but situations and events are different. Different event and situation make a different story with Manas as the protagonist. I asked, “There are two kinds of stories in that book. Some stories give the picture of an organisation, its ugly face and hypocrisy of the persons working for it. The other stories depict the escapades of the main character, Manas; his affairs with women other than his wife, even with married women. Which kind of stories of the book you like?”
She giggled, then took a pause, thought for a few seconds and said, “That’s the beauty of the stories. Your protagonist is an honest, upright and a committed person, but at the same time, he does not bear a moral character in traditional sense of the tern. Very pragmatic, not an ideal type, a true lover, any woman will like.”
I was really tempted to say the character is no one but me. But I said, “I am getting late. Please leave with me your phone number, I shall call you back.”
She said, “No, thank you. I know you are a sincere officer, very punctual and also dedicated to your duty. But I shall not give you my phone number. I shall call you again.”
She hung up the phone.
I went to the office. I was late. My boss had already enquired about me. When I met him he started reprimanding me for a draft. He said, “Is it the way a proposal should be drafted? Sometimes you do without application of mind…. “
The woman caller evaporated from my mind. I am yet to receive her promised second call.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
I was in a different mood, so I could not get at her. I did not react immediately. She understood and explained, “I just finished your story published in SAMBAD’s annual special issue and I wanted to talk to you.”
She was telling about the story seshachithi (the last letter) I had referred to in my blog ‘A Love Story Retold’.
I asked, “Where did you get my phone number?”
I do not usually publish my phone number along with the story in any magazine like other writers do. I cannot always attend to the call if it comes. Normally, I keep my cell phone in silent mode if I am with my boss or in a meeting. If the phone is not in silent mode and I am in a meeting or with the boss discussing something I immediately switch off when it starts ringing. The caller would certainly feel offended and mistake me as haughty and arrogant.
She said, “In fact I had read the story yesterday. I was so moved by the story that I wanted to talk to you. I got your phone number from SAMBAD office. Today I reread the story and just finished it.”
A writer desires his/her writing should be appreciated; he certainly likes to be praised. Her phone call, no doubt, gladdened my heart.
She asked, “Is it from your own life? I mean… an affair of your school…college days?”
I said, “No Ma’am. The main character of the story is an aged person; he is on the verge of retirement or has already retired. But I am not as old as the character in the story. That is a story, a work of fiction, certainly not my story.”
She said, “The story is excellent, especially the way you have ended. It appears as if it’s yours, a real love story. The language is very simple; I have already read it twice.”
Her eloquence in praising made me shy. To change the topic I asked about her. I learnt she was a teacher, working in Charampa, Bhadrak. I thanked her and switched off the cell phone.
I went to Bhubaneswar, argued with the contractor, got irritated for the slow progress of the construction, paid to him his weekly payment, fretted over the increasing cost of construction materials. I returned home hungry, ate a late lunch and slept. A day passed. I forgot the woman caller’s name. I had not also saved her phone number.
Ten years back. My third book, a collection of short stories (Nija batare nije i.e. all are in their own ways) was just published.
I had finished my eating and was about to go to the office when my land phone started ringing. (Then mobile phone was not commonly used and I did not have one). It was also a woman’s voice. She introduced herself in the same way, “I am one of the readers of your stories. I just finished your book.”
“May I know your name?” I asked.
I was pleased to hear a woman’s voice, an admirer of my stories. I wanted to know more about her. But instead of answering my question, she asked, “Do you know the names of all of your readers? Certainly not. So, why should you want to know my name?”
“It’s true; I don’t know all of my readers. I don’t know if I have at all any readers. But all don’t call up me. It is not unusual to be curious to know the person who gives me a ring.”
She laughed, I was amused.
She said, “You need not be curious about me, I shall not tell my name. But I assure, you have a good readership, your stories are liked by many. We, I mean, me and my friends have really enjoyed your book. In fact, we were discussing…”
I said, “Are you a student, staying in a hostel?”
“Don’t be smart… I shall not give any hints…”
“You have already given me hints without being conscious of it.’
“No, you are wrong. Even you assume me a student, staying in a hostel; you don’t know my name, the college or the hostel. Leave it. Please answer my question. Are you the character of your stories? The stories are so lively and beautiful, it seems, the writer is writing his own experience. We thoroughly enjoyed the stories…”
The book, nija batare nije contains fifteen stories. The main character of all the stories is one. His name is Manas. The character is the same in all the stories, but situations and events are different. Different event and situation make a different story with Manas as the protagonist. I asked, “There are two kinds of stories in that book. Some stories give the picture of an organisation, its ugly face and hypocrisy of the persons working for it. The other stories depict the escapades of the main character, Manas; his affairs with women other than his wife, even with married women. Which kind of stories of the book you like?”
She giggled, then took a pause, thought for a few seconds and said, “That’s the beauty of the stories. Your protagonist is an honest, upright and a committed person, but at the same time, he does not bear a moral character in traditional sense of the tern. Very pragmatic, not an ideal type, a true lover, any woman will like.”
I was really tempted to say the character is no one but me. But I said, “I am getting late. Please leave with me your phone number, I shall call you back.”
She said, “No, thank you. I know you are a sincere officer, very punctual and also dedicated to your duty. But I shall not give you my phone number. I shall call you again.”
She hung up the phone.
I went to the office. I was late. My boss had already enquired about me. When I met him he started reprimanding me for a draft. He said, “Is it the way a proposal should be drafted? Sometimes you do without application of mind…. “
The woman caller evaporated from my mind. I am yet to receive her promised second call.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
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